Twisted
Burning
Toiling
Anguish
Wrapped,
Concealed
Deep
Beneath
D­isconcerted
Contortion
Attempting
Feigning
Effervescence.

I must’ve known you in a past life
You feel so familiar
Even when I didn’t know that I knew you
I knew
There was something in the way
The warmth radiated from your skin
Caramel macchiato I drank you in
The baritone of your laugh
You were so familiar
Yet we had just met
Your silhouette
Was one I had seen before
But not in this lifetime
Were you mine in another one?
Slipping through my fingers like silk
Always one grasp away
But you’re never gone
The way you remain like the rain
Soaking grass in spring
And I’m thirsty for you
For endless nights talking in darkness
Till light came in again
And never running out of words
But even as we spoke it felt so deja vu
Don’t I already know you?
How do you know me so well?
Like your code is written into my cells,
I feel you on a molecular level
Your soul intertwined in mine
But never fully actualized in this timeline
Years and years come and go
But your “aww” and chuckle never fade,
I hear it like you smiled that way you do
Like it was yesterday
Time a construction that doesn’t function
In the realities in which I know you
I have known you
You’ve been mine and I yours
In lifetimes before
In present, eyes closed I manifest
My me’s and your you’s
Subconscious whispers traveling
Through time and space
Dimensions unknown
But I know
It’s you and you know
It’s me too.

There's a difference between looking and
seeing.

You can look at me,
but I wonder more
what you see.

Brown eyes,
brown hair,
barely more than
five feet tall;
my feet are small,
as are my hands;
my teeth are straight,
thanks to braces;
shoulders been broad
since I swam,
but my figure
is much less athletic
than it used to be.

I could look
at myself
and point out
a million flaws.
My forehead is much
too big for my liking,
my cheeks are too red,
my top lip is so
skinny it barely
exists,
and, if you ask me,
my waist line
could afford
to look a little more
like my upper lip.

My looks are far from perfect.
Not saying I'm hideous,
but I don't look
in the mirror
to find
America's Next Top Model,
or anything close,
at least not until
my face is perfectly painted,
flaws concealed under
a combination
of moderately priced makeup and
a rather crafty hand.

When I look,
physical imperfections
and inadequacies
stare back at me.
My overly expressive
light brown eyes
give me an
omnipotent glance,
and they beg me to
turn away,
to close them,
to put them to sleep
so that I can
see.

When I see,
it's like a whole new me.
I'm a human being
whose physical flaws
are diminished by
an overly giving, compassionate
heart,
a brain
filled of logic & curiosity,
a chest
swollen full of
endless giggles,
a throat
storing sarcastic words mixed in with
empathetic phrases;
down within me
I see
the woman
who still at times
looks and feels
more like the girl
whose heart has been broken
too many times to count
but still, despite her
womanly pessimism,
yearns optimistically
to love again.
Within me I see
a woman with confidence
and also insecurity,
ambition and fear,
tranquility and rage,
hope and despair;
I see dreams,
wishes,
prayers,
meditation;
I see a beautifully
complex soul
trapped in a world
that begs it for
simplicity and
conformity.

I guess when I look
I only get a glimpse
of the body
that feels the need
to be perfect,
to work out a little more,
to weigh a little less,
to fix her hair the right way,
and to dress in the right clothes.
The self-conscious me
who still fears being weird,
who cares what others think,
who worries if my parents are proud.

But when I see,
out comes the woman
who says
**** the status quo,
I can't be put in a box,
I'm beautiful the way I am,
and nothing stands
between
me
and achieving
my
dreams.

When I look,
I don't see,
but when I see,
I see me.

I feel the brim of my glasses graze my nose,
and I know,
even once I take 'em off,
my vision
is better
than ever.

It's funny how
I cannot seem
to find a care
or worry
in the world
as soon as
the sound of
your lighthearted laughter,
your gleeful giggling
reverberates against
my eardrums,
implanting all of its
melodious magic
deep within my soul.

Transformation.
To be transformed.
Seed to flower.
Child to adult.
Caterpillar to butterfly.

A wave can turn to a hurricane,
a flame to a wildfire,
a stormcloud to a tornado.
It looms,
it darkens the sky,
it frightens.

But does not the shore dry,
the forest fizzle out?
The sun sneaks out behind a seemingly never-ending stream
of darkness and devastation.

So, too, do we transform.

A boy became a man,
but not before
he was absorbed
by darkness.
Only thereafter
could he seek out the sun.

Peace comes after war,
recovery after illness,
healing after injury...

This transformation,
it is greater,
more magnanimous
because, too,
that process,
that search,
journey,
his darkness...
it stretched on for what he presumed was his
                                                                                eternity.

He was scared.
He was alone.
And then,
he triumphed;
he needed no one.

And then,
out flew a newly
transformed
him.
Out to the world,
new world,
brighter world,
out he came...

a butterfly.

Sometimes it's okay
to swallow, choke on the numb;
another drink, please.

Collection of characteristics
that the outside world
deems desirable:
empathy,
gentleness,
sensitivity,
the ability to love
deeply, madly.

Yet,
from where I stand,
the view is bleak,
for having a heart that
is big
means that it is
a hundred times more likely
to be punctured.

I wonder
how many times
my soul can
take these blows
before it withers
into
nothingness.

My body aches
of a perceived emptiness
that is
grossly
full of
an echoing,
resounding compilation
of disappointment,
anger,
and despair;
and though I am sad
in the free flowing of
my own bitter words,
I breathe in a jagged breath,
heave a large sigh,
and succumb to my
self-induced
anesthesia
as my big heart
is transplanted
with some smaller,
colder *****
that is not
riddled
with
pain
and
dismay.

I want to be
small,
simple,
average,
for there is nothing
to be desired
in anguish,
and I now
find myself
writhing in
envy of
those who possess
the gift
of
apathy.

2 years, 5 months, 19 days.

That's the last time a man
Looked me in my eyes
And told me
He loved me.

Nearly one thousand days have passed
Since someone looked at me
Like I was his whole world.

And now I'm at the point
Where I wonder if I'll be alone
Forever,
Not like the cliches,
The woman who chooses a career over a family,
Or the crazed lady who clings to her cats...
No, just a girl
Growing into a young woman
Who doesn't even remember
What it feels like to have someone
Love her.

Not sure if I've really ever even been loved,
At least not like it happens in the movies.
I've continued to pine hard,
Chasing the affection of conflicted souls
Who never bother to appreciate me,
Those cliched types who are
"Too damaged" to really love someone.

Sometimes I wonder
If I'm gonna be able to accept love
If I finally find it,
My fragmented soul having grown
An allergy to kind gestures,
Compliments,
Or anything that actually might be deemed
Indicative of affection.

Slowly sinking down to the baseboards,
Rotted and gnarled roots
Clinging deep to the underground,
My body dissolved into an anterior realm of
Cynicism
As I grasp the realities of my own
Unrequited love,
My yearning to demand more,
******* and twisted with my
Fear to stop settling
And actually obtain
"better."

2 years, 5 months, 19 days.
I'm just hoping it doesn't take me
As long
To look at the
Golden brown eyes that I
See in the mirror and tell me
I love me
Enough to not care who
Else might.

The sun hung low,
sliding down below
the trees,
whose leaves had turned a golden yellow
from autumn's adoring
kiss.

The clouds looked gray,
seeming to bring in
thunderstorms
that weren't to come,
at least not today.

We spoke of
mysteries,
created poetry in our
realizations,
harmony fostered with the gentle
breeze
as we laughed.
The aha's and uhuh's,
the self-discovery and
conceptualization,
they were the sermons,
the creed,
the metanoia.

The rooftop sunset was
the sanctuary,
the gust of wind the hymns,
the moments of silence were
moments of reverence,
our spirituality
birthed in the
gravel
under
our feet.

The world is
our religion.

Months have gone by and still
you echo in my black hole,
your lips still brushing mine
in the wind that caresses my face,
your voice whispering through
the riffs and chords of songs,
your body visible in the contours of trees,
your face in the curves of the clouds,
and looking up desperately at
the night sky,
I envision you glancing at the same stars,
your soul having been imprinted permanently
on the Earth's ceiling,
so even when I close my eyes
you linger in the corners of my mind,
a universe of
constellations and planets,
galactic clusters of
immortal memories and undying
desires.
Months have gone by as I
continue to orbit around
the memory of you,
tilting onto your axis,
spinning round and round as
I try desperately to get back
to you, but you're
galaxies away.

A lone wolf;
Solitary soldier.
Too comfortable you have become
stumbling down a path
for one.

Blinded by
eyes closed
to the world that truly lays
beyond
your chosen screen
of wool
woven, cross-stitched with
Denial.

Hands you refuse to hold
as you boldly
trek
down the dusty trail;
howling out silently
so no one may hear.

Sporting a
mask
made
of self-loathing
and fear,
vulnerability the
enemy you choose to slay,
for surrendering to
a state of
naked, raw
passion
seems more frightening
than the darkest dungeon,
stormiest night.

Gulping down
another shot
of loneliness on the rocks,
not even a splash
of soda,
for you like the way it burns.
Inhale solidarity,
snorting your
line
after
line
of
self-destruction,
acidic dispelling of
feelings
chosen not to be felt.

Sometimes, though,
in the quietest of the night,
sitting on the lip of a deep
substance-induced-slumber,
you may whisper
in a tone you would hate
to be called sweet,
and the mask comes off;

till 2 PM,
waking and at it again,
alone, a lone wolf
howls
at emotional
sobriety
and takes another
drink.

Lukewarm food
on a piping hot plastic plate.

Dinner for one;
again I indulge.

One of my favorite hobbies
is watching people
on the train.
Some on their
daily commute,
dressed in suits,
hurriedly sipping
coffee,
checking their
wrists with
frequency,
ensuring they
arrive not even a
minute late.
So many,
myself included,
travel along to
their own
soundtracks,
earbuds helping
them to tune out
the cabin noise
around them.
Bodies swaying
back and forth,
movement in sync,
limbs dancing
the train's tango,
left, right,
forward, and back,
and for the encore,
we all jolt and jive hard
as the wheels
screech to a stop
halfway down the
green line.

I can’t get your words out of my head
Syllable by syllable I’ve reread
Them a dozen times,
And now I contemplate why
And how I never knew
You felt how I do.

New city.
New people.
New places.
New faces.
New adventure.
New me.
I knew new was what I needed.
But the stomach dropping
head spinning
anxiety ridden
fear of crying
mind jumbled
even though
I knew better
made me hesitant of new.

Newspapers and headlines,
all the new is mine
to write my own stories
trials
tribulations
fears
hopes
dreams.
Who knew new
would be so hard
and so easy
all at once?

The train flies
at a seemingly never endless speed,
as my mind races simultaneously
                 along the tracks,
           bobbing and weaving,
                       churning along
as I attempt to discover
which stop I will take,
which place I will make
the home of newfound self identity,
unraveled mysteries.

Plush beads of summer rain gently kiss the windows,
pitter pattering steadily in contrast
to the low hums and stutters
of the red coffee ***
that saves many souls
lost in a daze of former slumber;
a lengthy stretch,
she leans back against the cream,
or maybe more ivory,
sofa couch,
wiggling it up and down her frame
and in its last push
released with a crack through the tips of her toes.

scrumptious smells of eggs and breakfast meats,
brunch is always her
favorite hour,
balancing the crisp texture of toast
against the delightful spritz
of OJ,
sometimes blended with a splash of something
sparkling.

the chords and rhythms that thrummed and purred,
the puttering, the humming, the stuttering,
a baritone chuckle
escaping his smirking mouth,
the moment so inescapably
charming,
how satisfying their ritual felt.

The scorpion
knows
not truly
of the
consequences
following
the
sweet, poisonous,
painful
venom
he
exerts
without a sound
into
his
prey;

venomous,
dangerous,
penetrating
the naivety
of his
victims
without even a
moment's
notice,
it's
done;

slithering
away
before
he can assess
the damage,
the
carcass of
the unfortunate
accidentally
infected,
left to rot

alone.

I guess you could call me
a people addict;
I live for the exchanges,
momentary or prolonged,
the satisfaction of smiles substituted for
verbalized salutations;
the how-you-do's and hello's,
the pleasantries of chit chat,
talk of my oh my, I am not ready for this snow
and how was your holiday?;
catching a supposed-to-be-sneaked glance from that tasty
stranger,
allowing your eyes to meet for longer than
you meant to;
a compliment that drips off the lips so sweet,
its nectar invading the taste buds for hours
on end;
individualized or multiplied,
I relish in the conjugated haze,
in the gazes and the giggles,
in the potential formulation of inside jokes,
in a have a good day to a grin I will never see again,
the whirlwind of vowels and consonants,
of coincidences and sarcasm,
of the impressions we may leave of which
we will never be aware;
I crave the mundane,
I get high off the monotony,
I am swallowed by the simplicity;
Yeah,
I guess you could call me a
people addict,
and I'm cool with that.

Don't you ever
have moments
where you want to get
so high
your pain becomes funny,
so drunk
you seek company and comfort
in strangers,
so numb,
so ****** up,
so incoherent,
feelings aren't felt,
thoughts aren't thought,
pain isn't painful?

             Oh, right...

Me neither.

Oh, how there is never enough
time for a person to
be alone.

Life's greatest treasure
is loneliness;
finding peace in the silence,
sanctity in the solitude.

You were always
an early bird, and I wasn't,
but my favorite thing was
to stumble out of my slumber
and hungrily look at my phone for a text saying
wake up
to which I would hurriedly respond,
though three hours later,
and you knew I would,
so as soon as I did as you predicted
you would command me to
drive the less-than-ten-minutes to your apartment
so you could cook me some
breakfast,
and we could get lost in each other.

You made me eggs and bacon
and always a biscuit with my choice of topping,
and you'd put on whatever CD we
currently found relevant,
that one time I know it was Ne-Yo,
and I chomped on my plate full of yummies
so cheerily
as you made me listen so closely to
lyrics you knew I would
just
get.

10 AM and I was somehow
thrilled to be out of bed,
enjoying the way the sun peeked behind the clouds
and stroked my cheek
as we shared a smoke on your porch.

You were the kinda guy that
made me like mornings,
that made me
feel the weight of the words in songs,
that made me appreciate art
and notice how pink
the sunset was,
that made me want to read the newspaper
so I could pick your brain and
pay attention in class so I could
tell you what I learned,
that made my world brighter
and my burdens lighter.

You were you and
you made me a certain kinda me and
**** do I sometimes still wanna
wake up
and eat some eggs while you
tell me your dreams and
your stereo plays.

Invisibility;

it need not mean
to not physically be seen,
for eyes look on,
taking in the
loneliness
I don;

crowds and rooms
bursting loud with tunes,
faces happily grimacing,
I am grimacing back,
revelry I am feigning,
as on spins the DJ track;

professional smile-maker,
the most experienced faker,
regarded by passerbyers,
they know nothing of my
insides                     on fire;

room crowded
and still alone,
optimism shrouded
by apathetic groan;

You
see
"me,"
but
you
don't
see
me;

Invisibility.

Shall I ever have a bad day
I remind myself of the way
the green of the trees compliments
the violet of the nighttime southern summer sky;

Shall I ever feel lesser
I remind myself of the way
my mother appears
as her eyes well with tears
of pride and joy;

Shall I ever experience a sense of emptiness
I remind myself of the sound
of my dad's laugh,
of the way my brother always gets
my references;

Shall I ever have a moment of doubt
I remind myself of the reverberations
that hollow your insides
when the guy you like kisses you for
the first time;

Shall I ever forget my purpose
I remind myself of the way it felt
when I saw my nanny's husband on my
graduation day;

Shall I ever doubt the future
I remind myself of
the way I moved on from
my deepest love;

Shall I ever feel weak
I remind myself of
my first days in D.C. as I
stumbled aimlessly through streets
with which I was unfamiliar;

Shall I ever be devoured by ambiguity
I remind myself of
the peace I have felt as I
watch the steady ripples of
the Ohio;

Shall I ever get lost
I remind myself of the
paths I have forged,
of the arms that
extend open;
I may seek resurrection mother nature
offers me
in the sand
I have felt in my toes,
of the grass that has tickled
my back,
of the sunsets that have moved
my soul,
in the water bodies that have sung
me to sleep;
I may be reborn in
the rifts of my
favorite songs,
in the quotes of
my favorite movies,
in the words of
timeless poems;
in the love the world extends
I shall never go without
comfort,
inspiration,
rejuvenation;
I shall never truly become lost
for the world always
finds me.

The tiny flurries
Glide, shimmy down from the sky,
Their snowy bodies intertwining,
Rhythmically conjoining into a wintery waltz,
One two three
Together they step,
Sweeping against the buildings and the trees,
Resting their feet at last
As they gracefully come to a halt
Atop the pavement.

The first snow of the season
Blows its frosty breath against
My nose,
The wind catching my hair,
Whipping it against my scarf.
The cold feels
Jagged against my exposed face
And fingertips,
My lips splitting open from the air's
Bitterness.
I stop the snowflakes' strides short
As they get stuck to my coat,
My hat,
My long black lashes.

Winter is upon me.

Lost;          stuck

Free me

   shackles wrapped

   clenched

suffocating

not even near

         but far

drive away

   rearview mirror,

you wash away

  I waved farewell

spinning

                  turning

                  ­               endless

fly and.

                        go.

                              ­ get.

you ask me why
      or how

answerless I remain.

putting the pieces

         together

and          apart

Riddles;

                  I solve,

Let myself know myself

But fearing

  questions’ answer

for knowledge

      Knowing knowledge

Knows no bounds.

Sometimes there are

      tears

but smiling

      floating

mysteries
      solved

slowly

simply

­  unraveled

and still shackled

but breaking

      free

And one day I will be

                                          in the sky,

wings spread

          to sunset:

I’ve found it.

I used to always
threaten to leave
just to see if he would
chase after me.

He did and he did until
he was done and
we were done and
no one has
chased after me
since.

I like to walk the bridge at sunset.
I like the feeling of the
Light autumn breeze on my face
As my calves burn,
Pacing myself for the
Two-mile-long journey.
I like the colors the skyline makes,
The soft periwinkle that fades
To turquoise, that
Transitions to a pastel yellow
And drips down into a warm
Scarlett.
I like the art
The city buildings paint against
The sunset.
I like the peacefulness,
Steadiness,
Tranquility in the river,
Its current rippling
Gently in rhythm
With the steady beating of
My half-broken heart.
I like the way my heart has begun
To mend itself,
Once shattered to a million
Itty bitty
Pieces,
It strings itself back together
With every walk,
Every step
Across the bridge,
Across state lines.
Sometimes I'm surrounded
By crowds,
Other times
It's rather calm;
But the faces, regardless of bounty,
Are lost on me
As I lose myself
Deep in thought,
In reflection,
In an attempt to
Forget you
And remember me
As only myself,
Before you and
After.
Day by day,
Step by step,
Sunset after sunset,
Ripple after ripple,
Autumn breeze by autumn breeze,
My senses are heightened,
One by one,
My pain is relinquished,
Little by little,
And my broken heart is mended,
Bit by bit.

stillness;
my petite fingers loosely grip the black leather
of the steering wheel,
melodies erupting sweetly from the dashboard,
their lyrics infiltrating my thoughts.
line by line, word by word,
they all take me to the same place.
my eyes search the sky on the long drive home.
the sky is a canvas
filled with an artistic blend
of magenta, red-orange, and gold,
as the sun slips quietly behind the clouds
& into slumber...
this same piece of art reveals itself
a long 6 hours away,
sneaking into darkness
above the quiet place where my music takes me;
to the place where my heart lives
for four solid months,
four months of sunrises & sunsets
where you stay
6 hours away.
yet, across those 300 miles
a single melody singing in my dashboard
can erase the vast, empty space;
in my stillness, I feel your presence.
time & distance are drowned out
in soothing sounds of rhythm & blues
& explosive colors in the sky.
all that I really see as I gaze upward
day in & day out
on my long drive home
is a pair of brown eyes
& long lashes,
holding me tight with their gaze...
"What distance?" they whisper,
"I'm always right here,
watching this same setting sun."

I am everything
And I am nothing.
I am big
And I am small.
I am frightened
And I am brave.
I am empty
And I am whole.
I am happy
And I am sad.
I am strong
And I am weak.
I am lonely
And I am fulfilled.
I am optimistic
And I am cynical.
I am hopeless
And I am hopeful.
I am right
And I am wrong.
I am selfless
And I am selfish.
I am lost
And I am found.

I am ironic.
I am not quite psychotic.
I am oxymoronic.

I am me.

I held the last piece of
Dark chocolate in my hand,
Preparing myself mentally for my
Last chance at delectable,
And as I popped the
Morsel in my mouth,
Its melty coating dissolving into
My tongue,
I heard the bag crinkle,
And I looked down to find
A sugar-coated surprise,
One bite remaining when I
Had thought that that hope had
Melted away,
And boy did it taste
Sweet.

Self-inflicted distractions,
ingesting every possible stimulation the
world can afford me,
lost in peopleplacesandthings
abusing myself with every tangible
substance,
redirecting my mind away
from addiction,
but try my damnedest and still
there you are in the lyrics of a new song,
so I start to read and there
you are
in the character in my book,
turning on the TV and there you are
in the storyline,
stumbling into another man's bed and
he becomes you
when my eyes are
closed;
everywhere I run
my addiction finds me,
and sometimes I fear
I will never escape
you;
you are there
in all the places I go
in all the people I meet
in all the things I see;
I see you
I feel you
I taste you
I smell you
I hear you;
you are my five senses,
you have infiltrated my bodyheartandmind;
even without you,
you still control me,
you still catch me slipping,
my mind wandering to you
in my dreams, subconscious still stained
with your imperfect, incomplete, undeserving imprint;
in my attempts to forget you
your memory refuses to
let
    me
         g   o.

I guess
once an addict,
always.

Goodbyes* are the hardest,
but *love alone
is not
enough,
so
goodbye,
love.

My body quivers,
the tips of my fingers
pulsating wildly,
beads of sweat collecting
on my furrowed brow,
teeth sinking into
my bottom lip,
breathing in sharp
heaves of breath,
echoing the fast-paced
pulse of my enthusiastically
beating heart,
limbs tingling,
lower extremities losing feeling
as my body becomes absorbed
in the ecstasy
to which it succumbs
as, in one last swift, graceful movement
you make me explode,
my mind orgasming in the
crazy sensation we have
created in the simple
exchange of our
encapsulating dialogue,
reawakening my addiction,
my yearning,
my craving
for another round
of conversation,
rapture unlike
any other I've felt,
in tangibly feeling nothing but your soul
and your words.

The forest green of the trees
contrasts so greatly
against the soft pastels in the sky;
Did someone paint this neighborhood?

The odors of garlic & parsley
wafting from across the
charcoal street.
Hums of today's news,
all the latest gossip,
ooh'ing and ah'ing;
endless snippets of candlelight chatter.

Occasional dollops of light
peering up from sedans passing by.
Sounds of zooms
blocked out by the steady pulsating
of white earbuds.

Dogs yipping, sometimes a real bark.
Neighbors come and go,
reciprocating cordial hello's.

Street lights slowly coming alive,
for at 8:37, the sun has begun
its transition to slumber.

They always say,
TGIF, thank god it's Friday.
As day slips to nigh',
the crackles and pops of vinyl come alive
behind a slightly rusted window pane.

Tonight's secrets not yet revealed,
a couple strolls by
holding hands,
sipping coffees, decaffeinated.

A man drunk with regret
and a 40 in his belly,
he breathes a clumsy, "Hey."
Malted liquor questions,
their smell & sound, unmistakable gurgling.

Street lights now fully illuminated,
glances exchanged from
passer-byers.

He opens the car door for her,
and into the dusk they drive.
Vehicles come by in even
greater numbers,
and still searches the young man
for $9, a toothbrush, and a shower,
even cold.

Just another night of
just another day,
in just another city,
in just another neighborhood
on just another street.

Silence, loud, ominous silence,
filtering the senses,
the stories,
the magic;
Isn't ordinary   extraordinary?

White.
Female.
Middle Class.
Heterosexual.
Agnostic.
Libertarian.

Yeah.
That's me.
That's that first layer,
thin as the paper you could
read it on.
Just a
Jane Doe,
a nameless, faceless
demographic.

But peeling back the layers,
ripping through page on page of a complicated novel,
digging
down
into
a
bottomless
hole
to
China,
unravelling
­the intricate
web of
stereotypestruthsliesassumptionsprejudice
and
there you will find
me,
a colorless genderless asexual
spirit whose frame
is crafted and molded
not with how the world
chooses to see me and
who "they" deem me to be;

no.

A guy that didn't know me well
once told me that I
spoke more urban than he
expected,
and I couldn't help but wonder why
someone from an urban area
couldn't speak like they were
from a city,
like somehow what he saw in my
whitefemaleheterosexualmiddleclassagnosticlibertarian
prolog­ue forbade me
from speaking in colloquials and
abbreviations.
Oh, I apologize,
I laughed later to my friend,
law students are supposed to speak
with an ostentatious vocabulary and
an heir of
(superfluous) arrogance.

I am rarely a prototype
of what it means to be
White,
of what it means to be
female;
middle-class* or not,
my parents insisted at age 8
that I begin to understand
the value of a dollar;
my sexuality indicates little
about my level of attraction
to the world around me;
agnostic is really just a term
I put because I'm still trying to
figure out whether I really
believe everything I was forced to
learn at Catholic school;
and isn't Libertarian just a fancy
word for I don't want to
choose liberal or conservative?

It's insulting to
ingest how much is
insinuated about
my depth in
the shallowest of pools.
My cheeks burn hot
with frustration as I
try to balance on a beam
cracking underneath the weight of
a world that is constantly begging me
to go back in the neatly
wrapped package from which
the world would prefer I
came.

I'm not someone
you can put in a *******
box and
label;
you can't contain my
shine behind
blackout blinds;
I will burst out of your bubble
and break your glass ceilings;
I will scream at the top of
my lungs in a soundproof room
until you HEAR me.

I'm not meant to be judged
by my cover,
and neither are you.

We are meant to be read.

After 6 PM,
four glasses of Chardonnay;
Jekyll turns to Hyde.

Sometimes I am so logical when I wish for nothing more than to be illogical.

Sometimes I am so illogical when I wish for nothing more than to be logical.

And so on

And so forth.

Inspiration,
perpetuation
of fascination,
inclination
to take refuge in
my imagination,
fantasies trapped safely in
hibernation,
concealed within
my stifled grin,
quivering
just above my chin.

I was in a
dreamy state
as we drove through the
mountains,
the bright
Colorado sun reflecting
almost too bright
off of the frozen creek.

The ridges of the
giant turf were
a little too brown for what
I had expected this time
of year,
but the snow had not been
as bountiful as
winters past.

My cell phone lost
service as we glided
along a windy
highway,
so I was left to nothing but
my earbuds and
the thoughts I had avoided.

I felt a strange sensation
of relief as
I realized I didn't have to
speak to anyone,
how I could be left alone
in the midst of a wide expanse of nature,
perhaps the humble surroundings
I needed to
recollect myself.

In the company of
my loving family and
in the presence of
my grandfather's wisdom,
I was bound to find some
sort of peace,
gain some sort of clarity,
for if you couldn't find
serenity in the
Rocky Mountains,
surely something was wrong with you.

I spotted elk in the far
distance beyond the car windows,
and, despite the frigid
single-degree-weather that enveloped them,
I was weirdly envious of
their tranquil presence in the snow,
their freedom to be lost in the wilderness,
their security in the pack that accompanied them.
In that moment,
I wanted to be one of the elk,
running free
into a realm of wild openness,
running free
in the mountains and valleys.
In that moment,
I wanted to be
free.

How badly
do I wish to love away
your
self-loathing,

to kiss
away your
ignorance,

to
hold you
through
your dissatisfaction-induced
convulsions;

cry away
your demons
and hate,
flushing
the pain
into my
skin.

Too complex,
too intricate
for such a simple world.
His mind sees it all in a different manner.
Put on 3D-glasses,
take a step inside the rabbit hole,
you still wouldn't find your way,
not exactly.

I don't always like
(the taste of)
bourbon
but **** do I like
the way it can make me
feel;
that sting of warmth
as it slithers down your
esophagus,
and suddenly you know
all the best dance moves,
your voice hits smooth on
all the tunes,
your jeans hug ya just right,
and somehow the night
has become yours.
Too many bourbons and
**** I might get a little mean,
but just one or two
and I'm the most
proud-to-be-from-Louisville-
Kentucky girl you've ever
seen.

I love the way it feels
To be barefooted
In the park,
The normally unexposed
Flesh of my feet
Brushing the blades of
Slightly browned grass
And dirt.

I hear the chirping
Of insect correspondence,
Croaking like frogs
In loud crescendos.
The lush green leaves
On the trees with fat wooden trunks,
They glow yellow under the
Fluorescent night lamps.
The leaves crinkle and crackle,
Shimmy in the wind,
Creating a summer staccato
Against the sounds
Emerging from those
Ever-chattering crickets.

A light breeze kisses my skin,
Twisting itself around
The darkness,
Morphing into a double helix,
DNA of the
breath
Of
Fresh air,
The summer
Heat
Briefly catching
A
Cold.

My raybans still covered
my swollen  eyes as I stepped
inside the Rite Aid,
in my pathetic attempt to
hide from the neighborhood how much
I had been crying.
Tears of anger and
some of despair and
others of sheer exhaustion
had coated my cheeks
and worn the edges of my eyelids
raw and reddened my
corneas.
I had stumbled out of my apartment
in an effort to rid my body of
feelings, assuming the brisk spring breeze
could somehow sweep up everything
I felt and whisk it away as
quick as it had come.
I squeaked past a couple
******* clad women with
sunken eyes that bore holes
into the glass of the cooler
as they stared longingly at the
rather large variety of
malt liquors, the selection of soft drinks
lesser than the collection of
40s I passed on my way to the
back of the store.
I distracted myself imagining
the taste of the various soda pops,
a wild cherry Pepsi dissolving into my
daydream tongue right before it
turned to Big Red Cream Soda.
Diet Sunkist in hand,
I stared at the ingredients on the orange soda bottle and reread the same words
over and over as he interjected himself again and again.
I made my way to the counter,
feeling ever grateful for my sunglasses
as more tears welled,
and I cleared my throat before mumbling a way-too-weak-for-an-outgoing-girl hello.
Before I knew it my distraction faded
from view, and I turned left down Oak
as his face peeked out in my
rear view mirror in the majesty of
the sunset.
I shook off a feeling of admiration and
reminded myself that even after all this time
he still manages to disappoint me as
he always has.
I murmured something about how,
"He ain't ****" like I'm some bad
***** that doesn't give a **** about a dude.
But then I remembered how deeply I had loved
a man who never loved me back and
never failed to prove it.
My stomach began to drop,
leaving me feeling as empty as the
messages he had sent me in his pathetic
attempts to convince me of ******* masked as
the rhetoric he knew I wanted to hear,
just enough to keep me around for his
(admittedly) selfish reasons.
I loved him and hated him all at once
as I realized 4 months ago when
I told myself (and him) that I was moving on,
it was only my head that had,
my heart still staggering, like a
drunk stumbling off a belly full
of cheap whiskey,
And as I later drowned my sorrows in
TV dramas and artificial sweeteners,
I vowed to get that last piece back and really let go...
I'll start tomorrow
when I sober up.

I am paralyzed by fear.
I am paralyzed by doubt.
I am paralyzed by the questions I don't want but need to ask.
I am paralyzed by the answers I don't want but need to know.
I am paralyzed staring at my pillows as my body hangs sideways off of the bed.
I am paralyzed by the feelings I almost wish I had never felt.
I am paralyzed by my past.
I am paralyzed by past lies and how they're seeping into my present psyche.
I am paralyzed by the love that I've felt.
I am paralyzed by the potential love I'm now unsure I want to feel.
I am paralyzed by the future, by what it holds.
I am paralyzed by you.

Every so often he
swings through town and makes
his way into my bed,
broad trunk filling the void this empty mattress
reaffirms on the nights I sleep alone,
which is most.

I appreciate the infrequency with which
he comes to visit,
my door kept ajar,
my heart kept  comfortably closed,
as he strolls in in his designer
sneakers or boots,
the noncommittal conversation flowing freely
between us.

Once I recall he rolled over,
his hand sliding up my forearm,
wrapping himself around my
frame as I pulled out my phone
to show him a photo,
and he noticed his number wasn't saved,
guffawing at my nonexistent concern for his
permanence,
or lack thereof.

I like the way he laughs
and the rare moments when we exchange
something deeply
personal about ourselves,
complicated words and phrases transplanting
simplistic nonverbal communication.

He is handsome
without being too ****;
he is smart
without being argumentative;
he is wealthy
without being ostentatious;
he is shy
without being withdrawn;
he is a lot of things,
my finely filed fingernails not even
beginning to scratch the
surface of his otherwise
intriguing layers,
having tied my own
hands
behind my back.

I need the way he doesn't
need me,
and him I.
Sometimes I need his body heat,
the gentle weight of a
man's arm hanging on
my curvy hip.
There are moments when I need
one of our witty but empty
texting conversations,
simple enough to read after
too much Bordeaux.

I need the something that
exists in the nothing
that he brings
me.

I am exhausted of
feeling exhausted.
I am emotionlessly emotional.
I am hopelessly hopeful.
I am sitting still at 1000mph.

Love is so complex;
too grandiose to comprehend,
too intricate to explain,
lost in some ulterior realm,
in a universe that is foreign
where the only thing of which I am certain
is that I am in fact
lost in you.

My body goes on autopilot
as my hands grip the sterilely frigid steering wheel,
speeding 20 miles over the limit,
body going through the motions
as my mind slips back into love,
into the all-consuming mesmerization,
grasping at song lyrics like straws,
searching the vowels and consonants for the
y - o - u
that I hear in them.

Reality comes and goes,
but you remain,
even in the moments most mundane;
sipping the koolaid slowly,
injecting your poison deeper into my veins
as I struggle to prevent the come-down.

What I feel buried deep inside...
it dries out my mouth,
creates craters in my stomach,
esophageal spasming,
I fight to catch my breath at the sight of your name on my phone,
the sound of your voice as you speak my name.

A thundering tsunami bursting at the seams of my
pale skin, my rosy cheeks,
the ferocity of my burning love
scraping against the bone and cartilage
to rip through me and
devour you...

And the only way that you
allow me to love you,
it's so small, it's so
momentary,
you only able to drink one
drop
at
a
time,
an entire hydraulic system,
streams and tributaries,
rivers and oceans,
forcefully squeezed,
funneled into daily droplets.

Dreaming of the last time I tasted you,
the times you used
to intertwine your body
with mine,
lost in incomprehensible ecstasy,
I can now only love you
through the simplicity of
conversation
and
of sitting by your side;
however,
even in its relative infinitesimalness,
I anticipate, yearn evermore for the stillness,
for I know that if today were to be my last,
if my hands were to slip off the steering wheel,
my body becoming sterilely cold,
your name would be the first word I would
speak
in my survival,
the last thought I would think
in my demise.

And though those moments
do exist
where I grow impatient,
frustrated with the walls you've built,
the dams you've constructed
to guard against my love's roaring riptide,
I would rather lose myself,
drop
by
drop
to you,
love you in the most minute way,
if it means I can
love you
at all.